


home

by cindo



Category: Daughter of Smoke and Bone - Laini Taylor
Genre: Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 09:47:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cindo/pseuds/cindo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembers only the distant silhouette of a mountain—growing smaller, smaller—and the stench of burning flesh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	home

**Author's Note:**

> young ziri going to madrigal for comfort; it's a little angsty towards the end though, but mostly fluff.
> 
> i don't own ziri or madrigal, they belong to laini taylor.

“Why does he have _wings_?” The voice is a hushed whisper; at least, that’s what it is supposed to be, Ziri thinks. The words echo in the dining hall and there is none who pretend that they didn’t hear it—Ziri included. He tries not to look in that direction because he knows that they are talking about him and he knows that the source of the voice is Tuft, who he shared his snack with only an afternoon before—perhaps hoping for something _more_ —but he looks anyways because he can’t help himself.

  
Tuft doesn’t look guilty; instead, he meets Ziri’s eyes unfailingly, daring Ziri to call him on his words, and tilts his head. An invitation.

  
“You don’t belong here, _freak_.”

  
Ziri looks away, brown eyes searching for another place to sit but everywhere his gaze is only met with disdain, if met at all. He turns, no longer feeling very hungry.

  
If he doesn’t belong here, where does he belong?

  
Loramendi is the only home he has known; it is his home but he knows that this isn’t completely true because no one else has the same long straight horns as him, has the same leathery, bat-like wings that extend from his back, has the same deer’s legs and hooves… he knows that this isn’t home.

  
“Ziri?” a voice startles him out of his thoughts and for one terrifying moment, Ziri thinks that Tuft wasn’t satisfied with his hasty retreat and has come to drive his point home. Even when his senses come back to him, he can’t stop himself from flinching and jumping back slightly, hooves skittering across the cold tiles of the cathedral.

  
_Oh_ , how did he end up here? How did he end up with _her?_ But it is always her that he finds himself drawn to and Ziri won't pretend to not know why.

  
Ziri looks up to find himself staring into brown eyes, wide and concerned, that were not unlike his own and he remembers that _he isn’t the only one with horns, with wings, with hooves_ and looking into those eyes and seeing the worry that twists her lips, he breathes, “Madrigal.”

  
And then he’s running towards her because he knows, he knows. He buries himself in her arms and feels the rush of warm air as her wings fold around the two of them and it’s as if she knows, she _knows,_ because he feels her hand cupping his cheek and he realizes that he’s crying. He’s crying because he doesn’t know what to do and he’s so tired of hearing the whispers around every corner he turns and sometimes they aren’t even whispers because it’s as if he’s not even good enough for them to bother hiding it.

  
_Freak._

  
But here in Madrigal’s arms, Ziri feels like he belongs and it isn’t just because they are both Kirin, it isn’t just because she understands, it’s because when he’s with her he can remember the musky scent of the mountains and he can remember the laughter of his tribe and there is no smoke, no ash, no smell of burning flesh filling his nostrils and it’s as if, it’s as if he has a home.

  
“You’ll be okay, Ziri; you’ll be alright,” she murmurs and Ziri believes it.

  
He closes his eyes and tries his best to commit this to memory. He wants to remember Madrigal’s warmth and her kindness and the mischievous glint in her eyes; he wants to remember the curve of her horns, the brightness in her brown eyes, the way she cuts through the air so beautifully; he wants to remember her because she is his home and it is this that Ziri clings to—

  
—even as her eyes become dull and her horns strike the platform with a clatter—headless body losing all the signs that made her Madrigal—as the chimaera cheer for her death. Ziri is in the crowd and he decides that he doesn’t want to belong, not to these people who would celebrate death so callously.

  
And when the scream—the scream of their enemy, so hated, so hated, so they say—fills the air, Ziri knows that the angel is not alone in his despair.


End file.
